Pain greets me first.
It swells behind my eyes, thick and pulsing, as if someone has taken a hammer to the back of my skull and left me to drown in the echo. I try to move, but my limbs don’t obey.
My wrists are bound.
My ankles, too.
The chair beneath me is wooden, cold, and cruelly upright. For a moment, I cannot even tell where I am.
Then the scent of stone and mildew hits my nose, sharp and damp, like the forgotten corners of a cellar.
The room is dim. Not pitch-black, but lit by a single overhead bulb that swings gently from its chain, casting sickle-shaped shadows along the walls.
The air is stale.
There are no windows.
Only a thick door behind me and concrete walls that sweat with old secrets.
A muffled patter sounds in my ears, following which Giovanni enters with a bowl of soup, his shirtsleeves rolled neatly, his smile calm in the way of men who know they hold all the cards.
He walks toward me without speaking, sets the bowl on a rickety stool beside the chair, and crouches to my level like we are old friends catching up after a long absence.
‘You must be starving,’ he says, the spoon clinking gently as he stirs. ‘I had the kitchen make something light. Easy on the stomach.’
I spit.
The arc of it lands squarely on his cheek.
Giovanni stills.
His nostrils flare, just slightly, before he draws back his hand and slaps me.
The sound cracks through the room like a branch snapping clean.
My cheek stings, but I smile. I want him angry. I want him off balance.
He wipes his face with the white cloth napkin tucked under his cuff. Folds it neatly.
Places it back in his pocket.
‘You have a flair for the dramatic,’ he says, standing again. ‘I was hoping we could skip that part. But fine. If you insist.’
I breathe slowly through the pain. ‘Who are you, really? Who is Alessandra?’
That stops him.
Giovanni turns away, walking to the far wall where an old chair leans against a crate.
He sits down carefully, one leg crossing over the other, hands steepled under his chin.
‘Alessandra is my sister,’ he says at last. ‘Cristiano’s wife. A woman who plays her part well. Too well, perhaps.’
‘And you? What part do you play?’
He looks at me, his face unreadable. ‘You don’t need to know that much, princess. Only that I learned survival the hard way.’
His smile returns, and it is disconcerting, wild, and makes my skin crawl.
‘Alessandra was smarter than me, in some ways. She married well. Charmed Cristiano with her eyes and her innocence. But I told her, years ago, that being a Salvatore wife would never be enough. If we wanted real power, we had to destroy the name from within. Not all at once. Slowly. Patiently.’
I struggle against the bindings. My wrists chafe. ‘And what do you have to do with the Gottis?’
‘Cesare Gotti is not a ghost. He is a man with unfinished business. Years ago, he offered Luca an alliance. Intelligence routes. Smuggling channels. Even a marriage to one of his own. And Luca refused. He humiliated him.’
Giovanni’s fingers tighten slightly.
‘But Cesare does not forget. He bled quietly for years. Rebuilt what was left of his empire across the sea. Waited for the Salvatore throne to rust from the inside.’
He rises again, steps toward me. ‘And then he found me. Or maybe I found him. Does it matter? I had the access. Alessandra had the proximity. The cracks were already there. All we had to do was press.’
There is an odd, almost manic edge to his words now, making it apparent that for reasons unknown to me, he worships Cesare Gotti.
He kneels again, eye level now.
‘We turned captains. Redirected shipments. Leaked whispers to the street. Let the city doubt Luca’s strength. We weren’t trying to kill him. We were trying to make the world forget why they feared him.’
My heart pounds against my ribs. ‘Why me? Why now?’
Giovanni tilts his head. ‘Because you upset the balance. Your return stirred Enzo. Stirred Luca. Suddenly, the family is watching again. Suddenly, the lion remembers his claws. That was not part of the plan.’
His voice drops. ‘And I could not risk you finding what you found.’
I swallow the bile rising up my throat. Giovanni continues speaking, his face completely unbothered. ‘You are leverage now, Aria. Nothing more. Something I can use to ensure Enzo does not look too closely at the wrong things.’
I laugh, hoarse. ‘You think he won’t?’
Giovanni shrugs. ‘That depends on how much he loves you. And how much he is willing to risk to keep you alive.’
The door creaks behind him. I can hear shouts somewhere, and my instincts tell me I am still in the estate.
Giovanni stands, smoothing his sleeves.
‘I had hoped you would let me feed you. No one wants a martyr who starves. But you are far too stubborn for my pity. I must make sure the family thinks I’m helping ‘find’ you.’ He laughs like he has made the most amusing joke, then leaves without another word.
For a moment, the silence is so complete it feels like the world has dropped out from under me.
My heartbeat is the only sound, thudding against the inside of my skull, pounding in time with the ache that blooms behind my left temple.
I close my eyes.
The taste of blood is still in my mouth, metallic and warm, settling behind my teeth like something final.
I’m not crying. Not yet.
But my breath comes short, shallow, and I feel the cold panic rushing up through my chest like a wave trying to swallow me whole.
I cannot stay here.
I cannot die in a forgotten room, my son alone, wondering why I left again.
Gabriel.
His name steadies something inside me.
The fear doesn’t vanish, but it condenses.
Sharpens.
I look down at my wrists, bound to the wooden arms of the chair with coarse rope.
My legs are tied, too, ankles braced tight against the thick legs of the chair. I test the restraints just a little.
Just enough to know the knots are real.
But not perfect.
Giovanni never saw me as a threat.
That will be his mistake.
The soup bowl rests on the small table beside me, its surface still rippling slightly from where he dropped it with false gentleness.
The scent is cloying.
Broth and bitterness.
My stomach turns.
The edge of the table is just within reach if I shift my weight.
I close my eyes again. Count to three. Then I thrust my shoulder forward, putting everything into the motion.
The table tips.
The bowl slides, teeters, and then crashes to the floor with a sound like bone snapping.
Porcelain shards scatter across the floor.
Good.
Now comes the part that hurts.
I rock my weight again, twisting the chair leg by leg until I can tip it backward.
The fall isn’t far, but I land hard, the back of my shoulder slamming against the floor, my teeth knocking together.
Pain flares down my side.
A scream claws at my throat, but I swallow it down. There is no one to hear me but the walls. And they’ve never been kind.
My cheek presses to the floor. I open my eyes, blinking sweat and tears. The room tilts. A small shard of porcelain glints in the broken soup.
Come on.
I drag myself closer, inch by inch, scraping my shoulder on the rough wood.
My hip catches on something, and I twist.
The rope burns into my skin. I push through it.
Finally, the edge of my fingers brush against something sharp. I curl them tight.
The shard presses into the pad of my thumb, slicing just enough to sting.
Good. I have it.
I breathe through my nose, closing my fist tight around the shard. It’s slick now, a mix of broth and blood.
I adjust the angle.
Twist my arm.
Bring it as close to the wrist rope as I can manage.
The first cuts don’t do much.
But I keep at it, sawing slowly, carefully.
The edge bites in, deeper this time.
The fibers start to fray.
One loop. Then another.
Pain flares again as the shard digs too deep.
I grit my teeth, blink away tears.
Gabriel’s face flashes behind my eyes—his wide, worried stare, his stubborn insistence that we don’t leave each other behind.
I bite my tongue and keep cutting.
The rope gives with a sudden snap. My right hand is free.
I lie still a moment, panting. The blood runs down my palm in thin rivulets, tracing the lines of my life like they’re being rewritten.
I use the shard to slice through the rope on my other wrist, working faster now, being less careful. It cuts. Hurts. But it works.
When both hands are free, I shift again, bending awkwardly to reach my legs. The angle is worse. My muscles scream. My shoulders burn.
But I keep moving, inching the blade between the cords, pulling, twisting, slicing until the final knot tears and my feet kick free.
I don’t move immediately. I just lie there on the floor, breathing, feeling the sting of open cuts and the stickiness of soup and blood drying on my skin. But I am free.
I sit up slowly.
My head spins.
The room tilts again, and I brace my hand against the ground until it steadies.
The shard is still in my hand. I don’t let it go.
There’s no window. No visible cameras.
Just the door and the table and the shattered bowl on the floor.
I rise to my feet, one at a time, unsteady but upright.
Every step hurts, but every step reminds me that I am not broken.
I survived once already. I can do it again.
And this time, I will not leave quietly.
